Death Toll

39

Shaw waited in the Porsche for Valentine, parked in the shadow of the industrial crane on the Lynn town quay side. Angular, black and towering, it stood out against a field of frosty stars. It seemed to reflect Shaw’s mood of gloomy introspection. It had not been a good day: it had taken them until mid-afternoon to track down ‘Gav’ — aka Gavin Andrew Peck — their one vital witness to the reopening of Nora Tilden’s grave. He had been staying at a friend’s house after an all-night party and had then gone to the Arndale Centre to hang out with friends in the warmth of the shopping mall. His recollection of the woman he’d seen that night was limited to her gender: he could recall no other detail. They’d taken him back to St James’s but his memory had shown no signs of sharpening up. Could he estimate the age of the woman? ‘Not really — but it was obvious she’d never used a spade before. She was really struggling.’ It was the one cogent observation they’d obtained.

After taking a formal statement from Peck, Shaw and Valentine had been called to separate preparatory interviews with DI ‘Chips’ McCain — now in charge of the investigation into Bobby Mosse. McCain’s approach, at least in Shaw’s case, had been clinical, professional, and chilling. He and Valentine had not compared notes.

The bonnet of the Porsche was hot and free of snow, but as Valentine levered himself out of the car, the motion set free a lump of ice which slid down the windscreen. Shaw batted it aside with the wipers, hardly allowing it to displace the image that he’d begun examining in his head: a woman, alone, digging in the shadows of the Flensing Meadow, down into that crowded grave. Not just an image — a noise as well, the slicing of a spade through clay and grit. Which woman? Lizzie Tilden was involved in the search for her missing husband John Joe, so they’d leave her for the morning. Bea Garrison they’d see tonight, at her B amp;B on the coast at Wells.

Shaw focused on the Christmas lights along the front: sharp pinpoints of festive colour in the sea air which usually lifted his mood. The mobile chip shop had parked in a lay-by, side-on to the water, half a dozen figures crowded by the serving hatch, cradling teas.

Then his mobile rang and he saw it was home, so he picked it up, and knew instantly that it was his daughter, not his wife, because she took a breath before starting to speak.

‘Dad? It’s OK — Mum said. We’ll go next year.’ Static blurred the next sentence.

‘Sorry — I just can’t.’ He hated apologies, thinking that they were what they were, valueless in themselves. What he needed to do was make sure that next year he kept his promise, and took her to see Santa floating in on the tide at Wells, and that he wasn’t stuck in a car waiting for George Valentine to get him a tray of chips. And he left the real question in the air: would Fran want to see Santa next year, or had they missed the moment, another slice of childhood he’d never revisit?

‘We got the results back — from the hospital?’ She sounded upbeat, so Shaw feared the worst. Her voice came and went.

‘It’s some colour I’m allergic to — but they can’t say which one …’

‘OK,’ said Shaw. ‘Is Mum there?’

She gave him a long drawn out, sing-song ‘Bye-eee’.

Lena was sharp, businesslike. ‘Where are you?’

‘Quayside — signal’s dreadful. Must be the storm passing through. I’ve got to see the team, get up to speed, complete an interview — then I’ll ring. Case has just turned itself upside down, again.’ She didn’t fill the silence up so he pressed on. ‘Fran said the allergy clinic had results?’

‘Yup. Simple, really — it’s something in milk reacting with something in one of the food colourings. Put ’em together and she gets an attack. Houghton — the consultant? He said it would wear off like the milk allergy. Meantime we have to avoid the E-number. I’ve got a note. But it’s part of whatever makes a colour, not the colour itself. So it’s not straightforward — but then it never is.’

‘Great. She OK?’ In the background he could hear the old dog whining, jealous of the attention he was losing.

A further burst of static cut out some of the reply. ‘She’d rather be watching Santa float by — but she’ll live,’ said Lena, her voice floating back with the signal. ‘If you’d said earlier, Peter, I could have taken her, but it’ll be murder down there now and I can’t go out — I’ve got a shop full of stock and the Speedo rep’s due any minute.’

‘I know. Sorry. That’s where we’re headed — Wells. But it’s business, not pleasure, I don’t think George believes in Santa any more. And you’re right, it’ll be packed, we’re going to give it another half hour, let the crowds get in place at least. I’d better go,’ he said, changing his voice, knowing that if he kept the conversation going he’d end up in an argument.

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Fran’s just seen Justina out on the beach, so we’re taking the dog out. Bye.’

The line went dead. He thought about the pathologist, the Labrador dogging her steps along the high-tide mark. Valentine pulled the door open and threw himself into the seat, cradling wrapped chips and takeaway tea.

They ate in silence. Then Shaw stopped, because he had that very odd feeling that his brain was working on something, processing detail, trundling towards a synthesis of images, a process sparked by what Lena had told him about Fran’s allergy. He thought about the little pillboxes in a line in the bathroom.

He let three specific images float into his conscious mind.

First: Bea Garrison standing behind the dispensary counter of the store in Hartsville, North Dakota. Shaw imagined a white coat, her hair held up with pins, brown paper packets for the drugs. He knew it hadn’t been like that, that this image was culled from 1950s black-and-white movies, but it was a vivid snapshot nonetheless.

Second: a soup dish on an abandoned table at the Shipwrights’ Hall, some liquid left in the bottom, the out line of a cockle in the thick fishy sauce.

And the third image: Ian Murray, pushing his way backwards through the door marked staff into the dining room at the Flask, in his hands three plates loaded with food, heading for a table with three waiting diners.

He scrunched the chip paper and kicked open his door to walk to the bin. He could have stashed it in the car, but he wanted to think in the open air. By the time he got back to the Porsche he’d done thinking, and his body screamed for action. He’d hit 60 mph by the time he got the car to the end of the quay, leaving Valentine to pick chips off his lap.